


Scars

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-16 01:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19633651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: AU about a month after Sherlock returns from taking down Moriarty’s network. There’s no Mary, John lives at Baker Street. John has a nightmare about The Fall and Sherlock tries to comfort him. They both find out things about the other that they aren’t sure they wanted to know. Leads to a very deep conversation. They’re probably both a bit OOC. I’ve never really been all that good at telling, and I’ve been berated before for making characters too OOC and not giving a warning. I don’t think they’re that far off, though. Mild language warning. Trigger warning. One-Shot.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been in a bit of a writing frenzy since school got out. Since creativity is squashed when school is in session, I really get my motivation to write fics during the summer. I’ve nearly doubled my number of published fics in the last month. I hope you guys have enjoyed them! The last fic I wrote was a Johnlock slash fic (Tea?), and it was very fun to write, however I really felt the need to drop back into my comfort zone and write a good angst/hurt/comfort fic with a lot of deep moments and some fluff. I’m a sucker for fluff. Review and let me know if you like it!

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

……..

Scars

……..

_“This is my note. That’s what people do don’t they, leave a note?” Sherlock spoke into his mobile phone. Real, genuine tears were dripping down his cheeks._

_“Sherlock…” John started to protest._

_“Goodbye, John.” John saw Sherlock throw his phone behind him and look at him before tipping forward over the edge of the building. His scream was caught in his throat as he watched his best friend fall to his death._

_“Sherlock!”_

John sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, his throat raw from screaming. He hadn’t realized he was doing that out loud.

He knew in a moment Sherlock would be at his door asking if he was okay, as he did every night when John woke up screaming, and he prepared himself for his usual response of “I’m fine, Sherlock, go back to bed.”

As predicted, John heard a small knock on his door mere moments after those thoughts came into his head.

“John? Are you all right?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled behind the door.

John was prepared to say his usual response, that he was fine, but his voice caught in his throat, and a soft sob escaped his lips.

Knowing that he had just given Sherlock all he needed to know about his mental state, he curled himself into a ball and buried his head in his knees, sobbing softly.

John heard his door creak open and hear Sherlock’s feet pad over to his bed.

“John?” Sherlock questioned.

John just continued to sob into his knees. He felt his bed dip beside him where Sherlock sat down.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around John’s shaking figure and turned him into his shoulder, rubbing circles on his back as he cried.

After a while, John’s sobs subsided, and he attempted to pull away from Sherlock. Keen not to let this happen just yet, Sherlock tightened his grip on his best friend until he relaxed back into his shoulder.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke. “I’m glad you finally let me know how you are feeling, even if it wasn’t necessarily on purpose. I…don’t want to leave you alone with your thoughts after nightmares. Now that I finally have the chance, I want to be here for you when you need me. If you need me.” John could tell that Sherlock was choosing his words with care.

John sniffed and nodded into Sherlock’s shoulder.

At this, Sherlock pulled back from John and stood. “I’m going to make some tea. Will you…I mean, I want…can you join me?” Sherlock was having trouble finding the right words.

John nodded minutely, and Sherlock turned and made his way out of his bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen to start the kettle, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar behind him.

John sighed and hastily wiped at his face with his sheets. He couldn’t _believe_ he had just sobbed in front of Sherlock Into his shoulder, for God’s sake!

_Whatever Sherlock wants to talk about, this isn’t going to be easy…_ John thought.

Ugh, _why_ hadn’t he just told Sherlock he was fine so the man would leave? He appreciated Sherlock’s comfort, but he didn’t want the man to think him weak or overly-emotional. He preferred to just cry by himself and get on with it.

He sighed and swung his legs over the side of his bed, slowly trudging downstairs and into the living room of the flat, plopping down in his chair with a look of resignation on his face.

After a moment, he heard Sherlock pour out their cups of tea and walk into the living room. He handed a cup to John and sat down in his chair across from his.

He took his time sipping his tea before he sat it down on the stand beside him and spoke.

“You’ve been having nightmares every night.”

John nodded minutely, sipping on his tea.

“I don’t want to pry, but I don’t like seeing you…distressed. Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock questioned, concern in his face.

John shook his head.

“Please?” John had never heard such a sound come from the Great Sherlock Holmes. He spoke the word softly, barely more than a whisper, but it was laced with more emotion than John had ever heard come from his best friend.

He knew there was no way he could refuse when Sherlock pleaded with him like that.

“They’re just nightmares about…it. I’ve been having them since it happened. Just reliving it. Sometimes, if I stay awake for a few days straight, I can sleep without getting one, because I’m so exhausted. But I get them every night otherwise.” John explained.

“Can I assume ‘it’ to be…”

“Yeah.” John cut Sherlock off.

“I’m back now. I don’t understand…” Sherlock started to question.

“I don’t know if I do either.” John cut across him.

“Can you…try to explain. I…want to understand. I want to help.” Sherlock asked after a moment of silence.

“Explain the dreams or explain why I’m still getting them?” John asked, sipping on his tea. He was trying to get some warmth in his body, since this topic was making him feel cold.

“Both.” Sherlock replied simply. John could still hear the concern in his voice.

“Well, I just…I mean…I just kinda stand there…you…I hear…you explain…” John struggled to find the words to explain to his friend what he was feeling. “I hear the end of our…conversation. I see you throw your phone and…tip over th-the edge.” John’s voice cracked. “I just watch you…fall….in slow motion. And no matter what I do…no matter how loud I scream or how hard I run to you…I can’t get there in-in time. And I watch you hit…hit the ground…and I watch you bleed out…and there’s nothing I can do…” John’s voice cracked again.

He looked toward Sherlock, trying to gage some sort of reaction. He seemed calm, but John could see a storm of emotions swirling in his eyes. He said nothing.

In his head, Sherlock was cursing himself. How _dare_ he cause his friend so much pain. Hurt him so much that he was forced to relive his supposed death _every_ night for _two_ years. And he was _still_ forced to relive it even _after_ he knew Sherlock was okay. He despised himself for doing this to John, but he didn’t dare say anything and cause John to stop explaining.

He simply urged John to continue with his eyes.

“I-I think…I think it has something to do with…I think I’m still reliving it because…because it caused me _so_ much pain. I…I’m kinda ashamed to admit how much I was… _affected_ …when you jumped off the roof. When…when I lost you. I don’t think…I don’t think my brain can just forget the pain I went through, especially since you just came back a month ago. I think I was affected too much to simply go back to normal. To how I was _before._ ” John explained.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, thinking. He was trying to figure out what John had meant when he said he was ashamed by how much he was affected by his suicide. A few different theories clicked into his brain, but he didn’t have enough information to choose which was most likely.

“John…” he knew he had to phrase this delicately, it was a deep question. “What…what did you mean when you said you were ashamed by how much you were affected by my…loss?” Sherlock asked softly. John could see the wheels turning in his head.

“I…I’d rather not…rather not talk about it.” John replied sheepishly.

“Please, John. I don’t think I will be able to rest not knowing how much pain I caused you when I…jumped. I missed you a lot, but I was aware that you were alive. Maybe not well, but alive. You had no such knowledge, and I want to know…I want to know how badly I hurt you. Please?” John knew Sherlock wasn’t pressing, and wasn’t going to force him into answering, but he figured he owed Sherlock an explanation.

John drained his cup of tea and sat it on the stand beside him. He struggled to find his words. “Well…I…I became depressed. Really, really depressed. I nearly jumped off St. Bart’s a few times. I…I developed…I developed some…unhealthy…coping mechanisms…” John trailed off, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

It clicked in Sherlock’s brain.

“Oh…” Sherlock spoke so softly that John just barely caught what had escaped his lips. He looked down in shame, fully expecting Sherlock to get up and leave, not wanting to be his friend anymore. He heard Sherlock stand from his chair, but what followed was not what he had expected. ` 

Sherlock knelt in front of John’s chair and gently touched his knee, trying to catch his eye. When he couldn’t, he slowly reached up and grasped John’s wrists, pulling them toward him. He wasn’t going to do anything without John’s permission, but he desperately needed to know that he was correct in his deductions.

Sherlock saw a tear escape from John’s eye and fall to the floor. Without looking up, John nodded minutely, more tears falling.

Sherlock slowly pushed up the sleeves of John’s shirt and looked at his arms. He felt a tear make its way down his cheek and he examined them.

On both of his arms, there were hundreds of crisscrossed cuts and scars, ranging from thin and milky white to thick and purple to brick red, brittle scabs. It seemed he hadn’t stopped when Sherlock returned.

“Oh, John…” Sherlock dropped John’s arms and retreated back into his chair, his head in his hands.

John finally plucked up the courage to look up, and the sight that met him was one he did not expect. Not from Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath.

Sherlock looked utterly broken. His head was buried in his hands, and John saw tears escaping and falling to the floor. For The Great Sherlock Holmes, this was equal to a massive outburst of gut-wrenching sobs.

“And I thought the torture I went though was bad…” Sherlock muttered.

“Torture?” John questioned. “What do you mean, torture?”

Sherlock looked up at John and knew he owed his blogger an explanation. He _had_ opened up to Sherlock, it was time he showed the same trust.

Sherlock slowly stood and carefully pulled his t-shirt over his head.

John looked utterly confused until Sherlock turned around.

There were scars crisscrossed across his back, wrapping around his biceps, and lowering below the waistline of his pajama pants.

John gasped. He stood from his chair and slowly made his way over to Sherlock, mouth hanging open slightly. He brushed his hand over one of the deeper scars and felt Sherlock flinch.

“Oh my God, Sherlock…” he muttered.

“I was captured and…tortured. Whipped, punched, kicked, everything you can imagine. Mycroft eventually got me out, but I was there for four months before he managed it.” he slowly pulled his t-shirt back over his head. “But it is nothing compared to the hurt I have caused you.”

Sherlock turned to face John. He grabbed him by the shoulders and gently pulled him forward into his chest.

John couldn’t remember Sherlock _ever_ hugging him before. Ever. Sherlock was not a touchy-feely man, and John knew he would never hug someone unless he truly meant it.

This in mind, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, mindful of the welts crisscrossed there, and buried his face in his chest. He hated crying, but it seemed that it was all he was going to do today.

Tears silently slipped down John’s face before a sob escaped him. He felt Sherlock’s tears hitting his hair.

“Oh, Sherlock…” he muttered. It was muffled by Sherlock’s chest, but it was clear enough that the detective understood. “I’m so, so sorry that this happened to you. It just makes my problems seem trivial, I never should have let your death get to me the way it did. You went through so much more, and you held yourself together…”

“What you went through is not trivial, John. I may have been tortured, but it was physical. You went through mental and emotional torture. You watched your best friend jump off a building and didn’t hear from him for two years. I may have been beaten, but I knew that you were out there, and I knew I would be able to see you again. I don’t know how I would react if I lost you.” Sherlock replied. Tears were still streaming down his face and hitting the top of John’s head.

“Still. You were whipped, kicked, punched, _tortured._ And I was back here, perfectly fine, slicing my arms open every night because of _nightmares._ ” John responded.

“Just because I was tortured doesn’t make what you went through any less…real. I never should have done that to you. I wanted to tell you. Honestly. I _hated_ that I left you hurting like that. But I had no choice. I lived with that knowledge while you were here, desperate for someone, for _me,_ to come ease your pain. I will never forgive myself for that.”

“Consider yourself forgiven by me.” John briefly tightened his grip on Sherlock before he pulled back from the hug, wiping the tears from his face.

“One more thing, John.” Sherlock said, wiping the tears from _his_ face.

“Yeah?”

“Next time you have a nightmare, please don’t lie to me and say that you’re fine. Tell me the truth. I want to be there for you.” Sherlock asked. “I have caused these nightmares, and I wasn’t around to help you before. While I’m not really good with emotions, you’re my best friend, and I want to help you in any way I can. Especially now that I have the ability to do that. Please?”

John smiled, his first genuine smile in a very long time.

“I promise, Sherlock.”


End file.
